Yours Truly
by JustAReader84
Summary: Edward Cullen & Bella Swan are the "it" Hollywood couple...until she cheats on him with newcomer Jacob Black. Hadley is a relationship advice blogger who lives in Arkansas with her sister Alice & writes an drunken open letter to Edward on her blog. She never guessed he would actually show up at her door, looking to her for help. Ex? AxJ Non canon lead pairing
1. Chapter 1

**Hi and welcome to my very first fanfic. I've been playing around with this idea for a long time now, and finally decided to put pen to paper...well, metaphorically speaking. This is very different from any fanfic I've personally read, and even though it _is_ incredibly different, I hope you will enjoy it.**

**I do not own Twilight, or any of it's characters. This applies to all future chapters of this story. **

**I do however own Hadley, her plot, a box of madeline cookies, an In-N-Out burger t-shirt and a glass vase full of fake peaches. Boom.**

**If you review this chap I will be forever grateful. Let me know how I'm doing.**

**And now we begin...**

"Beep, beep, beep!" the shrill sound of my oven alarm lets me know that the cookies are done. Finally. I don't think I've met my sugar quota for the day, hence this stupid headache. Headaches are not conducive to typing on a laptop all day long, which is what I do. The glaring light from the screen just makes everything worse, which is why I need cookies. Stat.

Oh, and some sweet tea. Don't judge me.

I take the cookies out of the oven and place them on the cooling racks. I pour a glass of sweet tea, and nuke it in the microwave for 2 minutes. I'm weird, I know. I like my drinks warm. My sister likes to give me crap about that time I microwaved a coke when I was 16. Ten years later, it's still not funny.

A few seconds later, I pick one of the hot cookies up and begin to eat it, letting it burn my mouth. There's just nothing like a fresh, hot cookie. My phone starts dinging. More emails. They will just have to wait until I finish this cookie.

I take a seat at my kitchen table. It's old, and it's actually a door. I found it at this great little junk/antique shop in the next town over. I brought it home and had a piece of glass cut to fit over it. My chairs are mismatched but that's how I like things. Homey. Old. Broken in.

Out my window it's another blazing hot day in Arkansas. The weather here should be the eighth wonder of the world. We can have a foot of snow or it can be 120 degrees. You just never know. Today, it's hotter than Hades and I am staying safely inside my house. I purchased a small, one story home off of our town square (yes, those really exist!) two years ago and spend my time slowly fixing it up. It's two bedroom, one bath affair with a small backyard that I use for a garden.

The second bedroom is a dedicated office. I have a great job – I get to set my own hours, be my own boss. Gosh, I sound like a spam email. I'm a blogger. I know what you're thinking – people can actually make a living at that? I'm proof, it can be done. Years ago, I started a blog before blogging was popular, about relationships. My sister thinks this is possibly the most hilarious thing she's ever heard of considering that I am perpetually single. What can I say? I just haven't found a guy who isn't a complete moron yet.

I graduated from the local university with a degree in journalism and worked at the local paper for a few years while I saved up for my house. I even started their blog and still occasionally write for it for some extra cash.

My doorbell rings and I have a pretty good idea who it is, since I rarely have visitors.

"Hadleeeeeey!" my sister sings out and she grabs me into a bone crushing hug. For someone so small, Alice is a force to be reckoned with. She is also unceasingly hyper. At five foot nothing, she resembles a pixie with her short dark bob, sparkling green eyes and elfin grin. Most people mistake us for friends because I look nothing like her, unless you count our ridiculously pale skin. At 5'7" with blonde hair and blue eyes, I feel like a giant next to her.

"Hey," I reply as she bounces past me, heading straight for the kitchen. Alice has a nose like a bloodhound. I think she caught the scent of the cookies before I even opened the door.

"Catching up on your sugar quota for the day?" she giggles.

"You know me, if I haven't consumed at least half a pound of sugar by lunchtime I get a splitting headache."

"Didn't you start the day off right with a chocolate chip pancake and chocolate milk?"

"Nope, I skipped breakfast. I woke up to surf the internet and was bombarded with stories about the Big Breakup of 2012."

You know how I said that I write about relationships? Well, sometimes I give my readers advice. They'll email me, and I write a blog post responding to their relationship woes. Other times, I'll use celebrities as my topic. I woke up today to find rumors all over the internet about the biggest celebrity couple around. Apparently, Bella, a young hot Hollywood actress, and her boyfriend Edward, a young, superhot Hollywood actor, have split because she cheated on him. Did I mention he was superhot? Like, there is no going up from him. He's an infinity on the 1-10 scale of hotness.

"So did they actually break up?" Alice says between mouthfuls of cookie.

"No one knows yet, but I've seen some of the pictures. She definitely cheated on him."

"I just don't get it," Alice says as she reaches for another cookie. "How do you go from Edward freaking Cullen to some wannabe actor? How old is he anyway? He looks twelve."

"I think I read that he's 18. His name is Jake, I think. He had a small part in the last movie that she and Edward were in together, and I guess they met there. I think maybe she was just feeling pressured to nail things down with Edward. They have such a huge fan base, and I think she may have been feeling the pressure to get married."

"That's the problem with Hollywood. They don't know how to handle anything like normal people so they go out and do bizarre stuff, like cheat on the hottest guy in the world. Gag. Me. Have you written up a post yet? I checked earlier but I didn't see anything about them."

"No, I think I'm going to work on it tonight. Are we still on for dinner? Where's Jasper?"

"Yeah, Jazz is going to meet us there. He had to work late. The high school band director came in to purchase a few new instruments before the band resumes practice and so he will be closing up shop whenever he leaves."

My sisters' husband may be the only good man in this small southern town. Jasper Whitlock is a true gentleman, and always has been. I should know – they started dating in junior high, when Ali was in seventh grade and I was in sixth. He owns the local music store, which is fitting since he a talented guitarist.

"You want to walk or ride?" I ask with a wink. Alice always wants to ride. I keep several bikes in my tiny garage, since I live so close to the town square and the walking trails.

"I call Pinky!" she shouts as she races to the garage.

There's never any point in arguing with Alice. The minute she turns on the puppy dog eyes, it's all over with and that's exactly what she'd do to me if I didn't give in. She prances to my 1963 Schwinn Deluxe that I had painted pink (hence the nickname) and hops on, giving the bell a ring. I grab one of the spare bikes, a black Wal-Mart special and give my non existent bell a very dramatic ring which makes her burst out in peals of laughter. Alice's' laughter is the best. It's home and Christmas and sugar and the cold side of the pillow all wrapped into one.

We head out into the blazing sun, thankful for the tree-lined streets. Living in the old but adorable part of town means that we have gigantic oak trees lining the way to the square. Perfect for our easily burned skin. We make our way to the Mexican food restaurant tucked into the corner of the picturesque square, lock our bikes to the bike post out front and head in.

"Heeeey chicas!" our favorite waiter, Juan greets us. We try to eat here every Friday night, Alice, Jasper and I, and Juan is the best. He also happens to make the strongest margaritas in the whole town, which is just another reason to love him.

"Juanita!" we cry. We head back to our spot in the back underneath the hot pink sombrero. Alice once made Jasper wear the sombrero and serenade the restaurant during dinner for putting a tiny ding in the door of her Porsche. I don't know why on earth she thought that would humiliate him – not only is Jazz a talented singer but he is a lover of attention.

"I'll be right back with the usual, senoritas," Juan says as he disappears into the back.

"So, are you going to do a post on the perils of cheating on your uber-hot boyfriend, or what?" Ali asks in a voice surprisingly clear despite her mouth being chock full of chips and salsa.

"I was thinking about doing something a little different this time…like writing an open letter to Edward? I don't know. Maybe a "how to get over your girlfriend being a lying, traitorous bitch" type post? It's not like he'll ever see it anyway. Maybe I can give all their fans a little bit of humor since they seem to be taking it really hard."

"I just don't understand it. He followed her around like a lost puppy for years – anyone could tell from their pictures and interviews that he was head over heels for her. He practically worshipped the ground her ungrateful Louboutin's walked on. And side note, but what an incredible waste of great shoes. I mean, seriously? She'd wear them for like, 5 minutes and then take them off so she could wear Converse. Who does that?"

My sister, who happens to be terminally fashion obsessed, is probably the only one discussing Bella's shoe choices throughout her relationship with Edward, as opposed to the actual act of cheating. Go figure. I guess that's why she's the perfect person to open our little town's first high fashion clothing boutique. She's been working tirelessly on the opening of Twilight for the last year, and has the been grand opening scheduled for this fall.

"Bella, I guess. Seriously though, she's young and even though he may have been ready for the commitment, maybe she just wasn't and didn't know how to express it. I think he's like twenty six and she just turned twenty one. We can't _all _be ready for a lifetime commitment at twenty one, even though you were."

Alice and Jasper got married one week after she turned twenty one. They wanted to be able to drink (heavily) at the reception and do so legally, since half of the town's police force was invited. Come to think of it, I think the entire police force was invited…along with everyone else in this town.

Juan has returned with our margaritas, and Ali takes a huge gulp. "I don't think I'll ever understand how you can give the best relationship advice, but not actually be in one yourself," she says.

I sigh. I hate this line of conversation, and I'm going to have to do some quick thinking on my feet or get her drunk to steer her away from it. Right now, getting her drunk seems like the better option. I take a huge drink knowing she'll follow suit.

"It's common sense, you know that Ali. When people are so deep into a situation, sometimes they need a third party who isn't involved in anyway, to point out the obvious to them. As far as me being single, well, that just is what it is. You happened to snag the only decent guy in this town, besides Juan here and I'm not exactly his type, if you know what I mean. I'm pretty sure his boyfriend would agree."

"Oh honey," shouts Juan from across the bar, "you _know_ you're always my type!"

"Thanks Juan!" I shout back, laughing hysterically.

Alice, however, is undeterred. That's one thing about my sister. When she's focused on something, it is hard to get her off the trail.

"Hads, this isn't about some big fear of commitment or something, is it? I mean, what happened with mom and dad…well, that has nothing to do with any of this, right? It was a fluke, Had, a really awful fluke and it sucks but…"I have to cut her off now. I can't do this. Not now. Preferably not ever.

"Ali, of course not. It has nothing to do with mom and dad. I just haven't found Mr. Right yet, and I don't want a Mr. Right Now…not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just not how I operate."

Alice opened her mouth to continue her line of attack, but I was saved by Jasper. Thank you, thank you, my dirty blonde, slightly disheveled looking saint of a brother-in-law.

"Hey girls," he drawled out. Jazz is originally from Alabama and has a thick southern accent. Ali and I have hardly noticeable accents. I think it comes from travelling all the time as kids, and our parents were from California, so we didn't grown up in a home where people talked overly southern. His accent is possibly the most adorable thing I've ever heard…with the exception of a British accent. Oh gosh, that one gets me every time.

Speaking of British, I'm pretty sure that Edward Cullen has a British accent…part of my mind is always on the post I'm getting ready to write. I'll have to check into that. I've only seen a few of his movies but he spoke with American English in them, so I'm not really sure.

Jazz plops down and begins shoveling chips into his mouth. He looks tired. He and Ali have been under a lot of stress lately, though she hides it much better than he does. A couple of years ago, they decided to work on having a family, but so far, they haven't had any luck. They recently started seeing a specialist and I know it's been taking a toll on them both.

"Good sales day?" I ask him. I'll talk about anything to change the subject off of myself and my pathetic lack of a dating life.

"Mm-hmm," he mumbles. "They needed a bunch of new instruments for the percussion section. Three hours later, we finally got them nailed down. Seth is a nice guy and all, but he can sure talk your leg off."

We make it through the rest of dinner without returning the focus of the conversation back to me. Thankfully. We talk a little about the article I'm planning on writing tonight, and drink margaritas by the pitcher. I'm not a big drinker and it doesn't take much to send me over the edge. Pretty soon Ali and I are laughing hysterically about the fact that Bella Swan would actually cheat on the hottest guy on the planet with some dude who looks twelve.

"Maybe she's having a quarter life crisis," slurs Ali.

"Maybe she's reading too many of those teeny bopper magazines and now she thinks _she's _twelve!" I choke out.

"Maybe it's time to head home," the voice of reason pipes up. Of course, Jazz is right. It's late and I've got to get that post out tonight. Jazz throws our bikes into the back of his pickup truck and we pile in. In takes less than five minutes to get to my house. After dropping the bikes off in my garage, I wave goodbye to my two favorite people on the planet. My only family and my best friends.

I head in and decide to break my one unbreakable writing rule. Do not write a blog post while intoxicated. I reason with myself, after all, what's the harm? It's not like any of those hot Hollywood types read my blog. And I'm pretty sure most of the women out there will agree with what I have to say.

I begin filling out the autoform for my post, while snacking on one of the cookies I made earlier.

_Post Title: An Open Letter to Edward Cullen_

_Post Body:_

_Dear Edward,_

_I'm fairly certain you'll never read this post, hence I feel comfortable writing it. My name is Hadley, and I run this little blog, __**Dear Hadley.**__ In short, this blog is all about relationships. I answer reader questions, sort of like a modern day Dear Abby, but only dealing with relationships. I can't tell you how many people have written in today, asking about advice for you, and advice for themselves…how they can move past the devastation of their favorite hot Hollywood couple falling apart._

_Since none of us actually know you, we can only piece together what the media is feeding us. Here's what I've gathered and a few thoughts from yours truly:_

_You loved Bella. Maybe you still do. _

_You were way more into her, than she was into you._

_She made a huge mistake. She owned it, but she doesn't want to fix it, she just wants to move on with her new guy._

_You can't try to win her back, because she doesn't want to be won._

_YOU deserve better. You seem to be a stand up guy, a true gentleman in the land of pervs who don't know how to treat a woman right. She didn't recognize what she had and that is her loss. Hopefully, it will be someone else's gain._

_You need to move on from this with your head held high knowing you did nothing wrong._

_I think it would be a good idea to get some individual therapy. Find someone you can trust, someone who will be completely honest with you and someone who has no vested interest in the whole Hollywood thing. Maybe find someone in the middle of nowhere who doesn't even know who you are…if that's even a possibility which I kind of doubt._

_In any case, good luck. We all stand behind you. _

_Yours Truly,_

_Dear Hadley_

I hit publish and passed out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi to anyone who might actually be reading this. Please leave me a review! I'm dying to know what you think!**

**I do not own Twilight, or any of it's characters. This applies to all future chapters of this story.**

**I do however own Hadley, her plot, a TV that is currently tuned into the Olympics, some fluffy socks and a Kitchen Aid mixer.**

I wake up to a pounding headache and a full inbox. Why do I have 873 emails? Is my site down or something?

My site.

The letter.

Oh no.

I hurriedly log in to my blog. And there it is. The open letter to Edward Cullen. Edward. Freaking. Cullen.

Shit.

I must have broken my number one rule and drunkenly blogged. How could I be so irresponsible? I scan the letter and realize it wasn't so bad. Honest, yes. A little blunt, yes. But then again, I'm known for giving common sense, no nonsense advice. I think that post qualifies.

I carefully shuffle my way into the kitchen. I'm going to need some hot tea if I've got a chance at handling these emails. And a pancake. I take out the mix, and pour a circle into my skillet. I top it generously with chocolate chips. It is never too early for some chocolate. In this case, a heck of a lot of chocolate.

While I wait to flip my pancake, I start scanning the emails. I'm surprised to see that most are good reviews. There are lots of "Well said!" and "My thoughts exactly" notes with only a few, "Are you crazy? Edward and Bella for LIFE!" thrown into the mix. I roll my eyes at those and keep going.

When the pancake is finally finished cooking, I've cleared out 94 messages. As I munch on the chocolate goodness and sip my Irish breakfast, I work my way through most of the remaining emails. Checking reader responses while nursing a hangover? That is dedication.

I clean up my dishes and get ready to take a shower. Despite the fact that it's well over 100 degrees outside, I grab a pair of worn in jeans and a Razorback tee and head to the bathroom. I could wear jeans every day of my life, and usually do, regardless of the temperature. I live in the land of overly tanned, beautiful southern women with huge hair and fake smiles. I can't compete, so I don't bother trying. I'm pale and without the ability to tan – I just turn red – I prefer to cover up with jeans. My hair is thin, and blonde, bodiless. It doesn't "pouf" correctly, so again, I don't bother. Instead I wear my long blonde hair straight, parted slightly askew and call it a day. I'm tall and thin, perhaps those are my redeeming qualities. I put my makeup on everyday, despite the fact that I usually stay at home, alone.

That's how I like to be. Alone. I know my sister thinks I'm crazy. The truth is Alice knows me better than anyone and she probably knows, deep down, why I am the way I am. It's a whole lot easier to lose people when they weren't close to you in the first place. That's why my inner circle, isn't even a circle. Just Alice and Jasper.

It's Saturday and I have no plans, as usual. Our square hosts a farmers market every weekend, so I decide to load up on Pinky and head the few blocks over there. I find lots of goodies, say hi to my favorite vendors and pack mule it back home. As I'm sorting through the produce I hear a knock at the door.

Figuring it must be Alice, I shout, "It's open!" and continue putting the vegetables away. A few seconds later I hear the door open and quietly close. Much to quietly to be Alice.

"Jazz?" I call, slightly confused. Why isn't he saying anything? Still no reply. I grab the chef knife I had out for the lettuce and turn around.

And scream. There is a stranger in my kitchen. And then I abruptly stop when I realize that he isn't a stranger, though I've never met him.

Edward Cullen is standing in my kitchen.

"Umm…" he says. Why is he staring at me like that? "I'm not going to hurt you. You can put the knife down."

The knife? What knife? What is he talking ab- oh. Right. I set down the chef knife and turn back to face him. Apparently my vocal chords haven't recovered from their outburst a minute ago. So instead of saying anything, I stare at him like an imbecile.

"Hi…um, I'm Edward Cullen."

I continue to stare. He gazes at me, obviously unsure of my mental stability. He's gorgeous of course, a real life Greek statue standing in my kitchen. But he looks so broken. As if one mean word from me could shatter his lovely face into a million pieces.

"What are you doing in my kitchen?" It seems my vocal chords are back in action, unfortunately they no longer seem to be connected to my brain.

"My publicist forwarded me your blog along with some other articles about my recent…situation, so that I would be 'aware of the popular opinion.' I read your letter to me, and I was hoping you could provide me with some of your suggested therapy."

What? He wants me to be his therapist? I'm not a therapist! I'm not even a real writer! I'm just a girl with opinions who likes to blog.

"I'm not a therapist."

"Well, it seems that you give some pretty good advice. I read through the last several months of your blog posts. Everything you say makes such sense. It's simple and straightforward but it works."

"I don't understand what you want from me." Geez, Hadley. Way to be blunt.

"I want your help. I don't want to go to some overpriced therapist in Hollywood who is just going to turn around and sell my story to a gossip magazine. I don't want to go to the middle of nowhere and hope that I can find someone who doesn't know me. Worse yet, find someone who _pretends_ to not know me so that they can go and blab my sessions to the highest bidder. I want your help."

"But I can't help you. I mean, I'm not like, licensed to help you."

"I still want your help. I just want someone who will be honest with me. You've already proven you are."

"Um, okay. So, do you want to just sit down and chat? Tell me what you're expecting from this because I don't know where to start."

"Well, I want to get away from Hollywood for awhile. Take a break. It was never really my scene anyway, I just stayed because of...her. And because people seemed to think I was good at making movies. I want out. Or at least, I want out while I figure out what it is that I really want. And when I found out that you lived here, well, who would think to look for me in Arkansas?"

"How exactly did you find me? I mean, I think I've mentioned a few times that I live in Arkansas but I never put my last name out there. I try to keep the crazies at bay, you know."

He cracks a grin. "I have a pretty good security team. I deal with a few crazies myself. They were able to track you down pretty easily."

"Great, time to up my site security, I guess."

"Nah, I'd guess you're fine. These guys are experts, the best of the best at what they do. They usually deal with tracking down people who send in death threats and such. I think they were a little stunned when I asked them to track you down."

"So, are they the only ones who know you're here?"

"Pretty much."

Cue awkward silence. I need a moment. One second, I'm cleaning and putting away produce, in my kitchen, in flipping _Arkansas_, and the next I have a Greek god, otherwise known as _movie star _Edward Cullen IN MY HOUSE. This doesn't happen. Ever. I must be dreaming. That's it. I give myself a little pinch on the arm and it hurts. Nope, I'm awake.

"Well, I guess you already know this, but I'm Hadley Davenport," I say holding out my hand. He shakes it and I see the ghost of a grin. I don't think he's smiled – really smiled – in a long time. That almost grin looked painful.

Edward goes back to being silent. He's looking around my kitchen. It's full of brightly colored bowls and towels and just about every cooking and baking device imaginable. His eyes land on my mixer. Alice stole it from me one day and painted flowers all over it. It's a pretty orange color that she mixed up and the flowers are varying shades of pink with bright green stems and yellow centers. I feel bad using it, and try to handle the painted part as little as possible because it's really more of a work of art than a mixer now.

"My sister painted it," I said, gesturing to the Kitchen Aid.

"She's talented," he said, looking back at me and then staring at his shoes.

"Um, so, where are you going to be staying? And for how long?"

He glances at me cautiously, and takes a deep breath before he begins. "I don't know. I just need to figure out my life and I don't know if I can put a time limit on how long it's going to take me to do that. Maybe a few weeks…maybe a month, maybe more. As far as where I'm staying, well, I was kind of hoping you might have a room I can rent. If I go to a hotel people are just going to figure out I'm here, and I'd rather them not know that. But if you're boyfriend would be opposed to that idea, I completely understand, and I'm sure you can point me in the direction of the closest hotel-"

"First, yes, you can stay here and no you don't have to rent a room. Second, there's no boyfriend. The only people who I'm really close with are my sister, Alice and her husband Jasper," I cut him off, because he's rambling and looking incredibly uncomfortable, "and you'll probably be meeting them because there's no way that you can stay here without them knowing. They're here often. You don't have to worry about them though, they won't tell anyone."

"Are you sure? I mean, I know this whole thing is, well, really weird, and you don't have to agree…"

"Look Edward, if you want my advice, and my help I'm more than willing to try. But you have to know that I don't know everything. All I can do is give you my opinions and advice and you can take it or leave it. It's your life. If tomorrow you decide to move back and try to win Bella back, that's up to you. And as far as you staying in my home, I think it might be nice to have a little company for once. I live a very…safe life. I don't take many chances, and I don't ever do anything that people don't expect. So, this is just as much for me as it is for you, okay? So, where's your stuff?"

I blurt all of that out and realize I didn't even think about my decision, I just reacted. I'm fairly sure Alice will think I've gone insane when she finds out, and maybe I'm still feeling some lingering affects from last nights alcohol, but I know I need this. It's time for Hadley to live a little, and heck, maybe I can help someone out in the process. Besides, who else can say that they've had Edward Cullen as a room mate? Well, besides Bella, but that was a different situation. They were lovers. We aren't even friends. Yet. Hopefully, if this man is going to be staying in my home, we can be friends.

"It's outside, on your porch. I rented a car under a fake name, and it's outside. I'm blocking you in, do you want me to move?"

"Nah, let's get your stuff off the porch and I'll show you to your room. If you don't want to keep the rental, you can always return it and you're welcome to use my car if you need to go anywhere."

He looks at me curiously as we head to the front door. He shakes his head a little and says, "I've heard about the whole 'southern hospitality' thing. I had no idea it really existed. That's a nice offer, but I'm a terrible driver. I'd hate to wreck your car."

On the porch are four designer looking suitcases. I grab a roller board and toss his duffle on top of it.

"No, I can get those!" he insists while trying to pull the handle away from me.

"Unless you have some sort of issue with people touching your stuff, I'm perfectly capable of helping you get your luggage in the house. Plus, it's noon which means Mrs. McCredy will be outside to get her mail. You don't want to be spotted by her…she probably won't have any idea who you are, no offense, but she'll be telling the whole town that I've got a guy staying at my house."

"No offense taken, and you're right, I don't want that to happen. Maybe I should return the car. But I still don't really want to drive yours, not that I really have anywhere to go…"

"Don't worry about, if you need to go somewhere, I'll take you. It's not like you know where anything is around here anyway. Here's your room. Sorry, it's kind of small. I'll move my junk out of here, if you'll just give me a couple of minutes."

"It's perfect, thanks. I'm loving the painting of the bird…what does that say under it?" he asks as he moves in for a closer look.

"It says 'hope is the thing with feathers.' Alice painted it."

"That's a nice saying."

"It's an Emily Dickenson poem. Anyway, let me go grab a box or something so I can move some of this stuff out of your way. I store my camera equipment and books and stuff in here so the room isn't empty but I've got plenty of space in my room. I'll move it in there," I say as I'm half running out of the room and away from this conversation.

I run down the hall and into my room. I shut the door and sit down against it. I put my head in my hands and slowly rock back and forth, trying to calm myself down. Alice painted that right after we had our one and only talk about our parents…passing. It's the reason I avoid that room as much as possible even though I keep my favorite books in there and it has a great view of the garden. There are things that I just can't handle.

A soft knock at my door startles me out of my reverie. I jump up and crack it open.

"Hey…did I upset you? Sorry, sometimes I can be an insensitive jerk. I shouldn't have said anything about the painting. And you don't need to move your stuff out of your room, I barely brought anything with me, and I have plenty of room for everything. So please, don't worry about it."

I nod and open the door wider. "Sorry," I whisper, "here I'm supposed to be the one helping you and here you are checking on me. I'm fine now, I promise. Sorry about that."

"Hey, it's no problem. Don't worry about it. I'm going to go unpack my stuff okay?"

The look of concern on is face is disarming. The only people to look at me like that in the last five years were Alice and Jasper, and that's really because they are the only ones I allow into my life. Seeing someone else, a virtual stranger look at me with concern throws me off.

"Sure, I'll be in the kitchen. I went to the farmers market this morning. That's what I was doing when you showed up – putting the produce away. You can join me if you want when you're done."

I head to the kitchen and resume where I left off. I grab the salad spinner and a cutting board and begin cleaning the lettuce and bagging it up. Next I grab the watermelon and slice it in half. Using a melon baller, I begin to scoop out pieces of the delicious fruit and put them in a plastic container. I pop a piece in my mouth and keep working. I picked a good one. It's sweet and juicy and delicious. My mom taught me how to pick the best watermelons.

Footsteps alert me to Edward's presence. I turn around and he's standing awkwardly at the entrance to the kitchen with his hands in his pockets.

"Want some watermelon?"

"Sure, that sound really good."

I scoop some into a bowl grab a fork. I hand it off to him while I start working on the other half of the melon.

"This is the best watermelon I've ever had," he says through a mouthful.

"Thanks. There's two things I'm good at – blogging and picking watermelons," I say with a laugh. "So, what would you like to do? I can take you for a drive around town when I'm done if you want. My windows are tinted as dark as legally allowed, so no one will spot you."

"That sounds like fun."

"Don't get your hopes up. This is Arkansas. There's not a lot to see. The whole trip might take thirty minutes. That's being generous."

He barked out a laugh, from the sound of it, laughing was a foreign noise to his vocal chords. I cleaned up the kitchen and grabbed my aviators off the counter, along with my wallet and keys.

"Let's go," I said, leading the way to the garage.

"I think, if it's alright with you, that I'll take you up on returning the rental. Would you mind leading me over there?" he asked uncertainly.

"Of course. If we take the back way, were only about 15 minutes from there. Not that there's any chance of it, but I'll give you my cell number in case you get lost. Here, hand me your phone," I said and held out my hand. I saw him hesitate and realized that maybe handing over his celeb status cell phone to a nobody like me made him uncomfortable.

"Or, I could just tell you my number and you can punch it in." He immediately looked relieved. Huh. Maybe he's had to deal with some real creeps in the past, but I was kind of under the impression that he realized I wasn't one…being as _he_ sought _me_ out and all. Maybe he's just a germaphobe who hates people touching his stuff. Probably not though, being as he consented to letting me help with his luggage.

I opened the door to the garage and flipped the lights on.

"_That's_ your car?" he asked in astonishment.

"Yep, why?" I asked as I pressed the garage door opener.

"I don't know…I kind of figured you for a pink VW Bug driver or something."

"Really? Not that I have anything against pink Bugs, but I happen to have a deep and meaningful love for driving fast. Just pull your – is that a Volvo? - back to the right side of the street and you can follow me to the car drop off. Are they auto billing you or do you need to go in?"

"Auto billing. And yes, that's a Volvo. Don't knock my fine Swedish rental."

Oooh, he's got a sense of humor underneath that brooding expression. Though, granted, he was just publically cheated on and humiliated by his long time girlfriend, so I supposed he has every reason to be brooding.

"Yes, well, I'll try not to leave your fine piece of Swedish machinery in my German created dust. Admit it, you're crushing on my Audi."

"The R8 is a really nice car," he admitted as he loped off towards the Volvo.

I backed out of my garage and revved the engine for his benefit before taking off for the car drop off at the airport. I tried to formulate a plan of what to drive him by for our big tour of the town. There really wasn't much to see. I doubt he'd care to drive by the local Wal-Mart.

I glance up to my rear view mirror to make sure I haven't lost him and for a second, I think I have. I slow down to let the silver car catch up – and I begin to rethink my offer for him to borrow my car. The boy can't drive. He's halfway on the shoulder and struggling to keep up with me. I see him turn his blinker on, presumably by mistake, and then mouth what seems to be an expletive as he struggles to turn it back off. He almost ends up in a ditch during his fight with the blinker, but eventually regains some control over the car.

Eventually, we make it to the airport and I'm relieved to see he and the car are still in one piece. He's got a hat and sunglasses on, and he swings widely into a parking space, nearly taking out the car next to him. I unlock the doors as he makes his way quickly over to me with his head down. He seems to relax a little once he's safely in the car with the door shut.

"I see what you mean about you driving skills," I say, sneaking a sideways glance at him. "Or should I say, lack thereof."

"You try growing up in small town England, driving on the other side of the road with completely different traffic laws, and then come here where people drive like maniacs and see how well you do," he quipped. "So, where to?"

"I've been thinking about what I could show you. The truth is, there's not much here. We've got some corporate offices, a few Wal-Marts, and a Starbucks. Real interesting stuff. I'll just drive you around and if there's anything interesting along the way, I'll point it out."

As we drive we fall into a semi comfortable silence. I start to think about tonight. I plan to have our first discussion about Bella, and whatever else he wants to talk about after dinner. Hopefully, whatever he has to say will spawn more questions for me to ask and lead me in a direction where I feel like I can help him. Ha, I internally snort. How am I going to help him? I usually have readers write in with one question. I answer said question and we both go on with our lives. It's rarely ever a dialogue where we sort through bigger issues.

Oh, and none of them have ever lived with me. Or been a huge celebrity. Or been incredibly good looking and have an English accent.

Yeah, there's that…


End file.
